Mass Effect: I Remember Me
by Raven Studios
Summary: The things we have in common with others are not always pleasant ones. Follows the background mission for which it is named, and features the Shepard from "Cause and Effect" and "Newton's First Law".


Author's Notes: Because it doesn't fit in "Newton's First" without being horrendously pared down. I found myself unable to break out my machete to make the necessary cuts to make it fit-and then it took too many chapters. So here it is, early, but in its entirety. I reference Chapter 02: Hold My Hand and Chapter 45: Two Roads from "Cause and Effect" specifically, but it isn't necessary to read them. Mass Effect belongs to Bioware.

Beta-read by Saberlin

-J-

I Remember Me

-J-

Shepard was not the only one looking forward to getting off the _Normandy_ for a while. It had taken the entire trip back to the Citadel for the marines to conclude that they would never get all the zombie-based foulness off their armor and it was no use to continue trying. It was not comforting, considering the pains to determination and knuckles it took to get most of the crusted, mud-mingled slime out of their boot treads.

After the stone-age environment of the colony on Feros, human and nonhuman alike were ready to enjoy the amenities of a highly populated, fully colonized locale. It was not officially shore leave, but it was certainly a break, even if only for a day or two.

For Shepard there was no leave. Her dual role as commanding officer and Council Spectre took up all her time. If it was not one role, it was the other demanding her undivided and immediate attention. The exhortation that a person could not serve two masters was proved by her current situation.

While most of the crew—she was sure Williams and Alenko would tag along; they were there when this started and were still neck-deep in this affair—took time to enjoy the Citadel, she would spend her time trying to rustle up the whereabouts (or possible whereabouts) of Saren's executor Benezia.

Benezia was the only lead Shepard had, and to Shepard's unvoiced disappointment, Liara was clueless as to how to find her mother. Shepard did not believe it was because the asari was trying to protect the Matriarch, even if Williams did.

A good deal of Shepard was glad Liara liked to be alone. Kids like that did not belong on a warship tracking down insane turian Spectres. She had never seen such a green kid in her entire life. She had the feeling Liara would tag along on this information-gathering foray in hopes of being somehow useful.

Midway through mulling over her situation—and tossing darkly mutinous feelings both at the Alliance and the council for landing her in the middle of this tug-of-war—her commlink sputtered in her ear before a heavily accented human voice cut in. "_Commander Shepard_?"

Shepard stepped out of the elevator with the exodus of her comrades, startled as she did not recognize the voice. An accent like that she would surely remember, being somewhat nasal. "This is Shepard." It was not usual at all to have someone contact her so abruptly. An Alliance contact would have introduced himself after asking her to confirm her identity. The man could only belong to so many groups—and none of them were private groups, since they did not have access to military radio frequencies. So, he must, therefore, be military, Spectres, or C-Sec.

The group waited—with the exception of Wrex, who soon vanished—as Shepard stayed where she was.

Her skin prickled uncomfortably. She adapted to things out of the ordinary most days of the week (especially recently), but unexpected occurrences when she was supposed to be out of the field caught her as off-guard as they would anyone else.

"_I'm very sorry to bother you, Commander, I hope you aren't in the middle of anything." _A simple politeness, for he continued immediately, and almost without pause, "I_'m C-Sec Lt. Girard, down in docking bay five. There's a…a woman here who…ah…she was rescued from batarian slavers a few weeks ago…_"

Shepard's eyes narrowed in response to 'batarian slavers'. Her thoughts seemed to flash freeze, and the old hatred stirred before settling down again. She had forced that part of her into hibernation years ago through staunch will and a good deal of work. She could not kill it, or she would have done so long ago, but she controlled it, not the other way around.

But every so often it raised it's ugly head, as though hopeful for release, as it did now.

Shepard's generally pleasant expression of neutrality leeched from her features like color from a wet marker, a clear sign to her comrades that not all was well. Alenko and Williams exchanged a look, then a shrug.

"Go ahead," Shepard said into the commlink, forcing herself to blank out everyone and everything around her.

"_She is from Mindoir."_

_Mindoir_. The unexpected invocation of the great graveyard in Shepard's mind made her close her eyes as her breath suddenly seemed to still in her lungs. Hastily, she turned to face the elevator, feigning the need for intense concentration, as though the connection was weak and full of static.

She did not want them to see her shaken, not when they were already out of their depth. The crew needed to be able to trust her; they needed her to present the facade of an immovable stone. She was their anchor, the glue that bound them together, and she knew it.

Yet she was human, and cold seeped insidiously into her stomach, rustling up memories long thought to have faded with time.

Another one? A survivor? She _knew_ she wasn't the only one…though sometimes it felt as though she was—but only around the anniversary of those events or after bad nightmares which were, mercifully, infrequent. The Cipher seemed to have monopolized her capacity for bad dreams.

Even as she considered the idea of another survivor, and one in the same general place as she was, statistics about Mindoir scrolled through her mind, particularly the survivors and the numbers pertaining to the handful of survivors she knew personally. She quickly ceased: statistics always painted the very bleakest of pictures.

"Is she okay?" It was a dumb question, but Shepard couldn't think of anything else, feeling as wrong-footed as she did. Surely they wouldn't call her just to come hold someone's hand, no matter how willing she might be to do so.

"Commander?" It was Garrus, but the question brought her more to herself. She straightened, having hunched in on herself, as though preparing for a blow. Forcing herself into comfortable neutrality—and not sure how many people she could fool with it—she turned around to find her team frowning in perplexity and some concern.

Garrus' arms were crossed, and he resonated readiness to jump into action at the drop of a hat. It was one of the things she liked about Garrus, he was one of the ones who saw the world in black and white with very few shades of gray. Guileless, but she would never use the word aloud.

Williams scowled, her arms crossed, weight on one hip. It could as easily be a posture declaring a challenge, or simply one of expectancy. Williams reminded Shepard vaguely of O'Conner, though she could not say exactly why. Maybe it was the bluntness; Shepard was sure if she did not explain the matter at hand once she got off the radio, Williams would inquire.

Alenko only looked thoughtful—_worried_ but thoughtful, a staunch, steady presence with whom she had several very strange things in common. She and Alenko had discussed Jump Zero. They had touched on the raid. Both stories centered on killing their first sapient. He did it accidentally—she called it an accident, since the turian _technically_ died because he didn't get to medical care fast enough—to protect someone he cared about. She did it in cold blood to save herself. Again, it was a strange thing to have in common, but having seen something similar made it very easy to accept…

Yet, despite these comfortable connections to both humans and the turian, as much as she liked them, this was not something she wanted to share with anyone. They were outside of it. They had no part in that chapter of her life.

If Robbins was here, it would be a different story. Robbins—and, indeed, Maguire—had an indisputable place in that chapter of Shepard's life, and could get closer to the topic than anyone who only knew about Mindoir as a footnote in human history, however well-meaning.

"What's the matter, Shepard?" Garrus asked again, this time fully breaking her concentration, reminding her she would have to tell her unit something before long.

She had no intention of telling them the exact circumstances, so she held up a finger to forestall more conversation, so as not to miss Girard's next words. Thank goodness it was faster to think something out than to say it, otherwise she might have missed something impotant.

"_Not really. She's…a little messed up, I suppose. She got loose, somehow, grabbed a gun from one of my guys._" Embarrassing and potentially explosive. Guns and captives, even rescued captives, usually resulted in a big mess all over the walls and floor—bloody and/or brainy messes.

"Oh shit…" Shepard sighed, rubbing her neck wearily. "Just a second, Lieutenant..." she muted the commlink on her end, turning to examine the faces before her—Alenko, Williams, Liara and Garrus. She missed Tali's face in the group before remembering the quarian's reluctance to head out onto the Citadel, even as part of a group. Shepard understood wanting to stay aboard ship, rather than engage in very social pursuits well enough, and so had not pressed the quarian to leave the ship. Adams was staying, so it would not be as though Tali had nothing to do, or no one to talk to.

"You guys go on—I'm going to be awhile." She had no intention of taking her team with her on this particular venture. It was highly personal, and she did not want them tangled up in it. For a moment she wondered if it was a matter of whether she trusted them or not. The answer was no, she trusted them very much—but this was private, and too many soldiers would complicate matters.

"What…" Alenko started, his brow creasing as he eyed Shepard.

"Just go on," Shepard insisted, "I'll catch up. It's just a hitch." She was not exactly lying, but phrased like that, they might assume whatever it was was boring, one of those onerous duties the Council or the Alliance liked to foist upon her.

Between the two agencies, Shepard felt as though she was cleaning someone else's room, hunting for missing socks or the mates to dolls' orphaned shoes.

"Are you sure?" Williams looked around at the others. "We can wait."

It wasn't like Shepard to shut down the line of communication with her team, and Shepard knew she had done just that. In blocking them out of her current situation, with its sensitive cares, concerns and troubles, she suddenly felt as though a deep, wide chasm had sprung up between her and the people whom she faced.

From that unexpected vantage point, she could see how much of an effect the _Normandy's_ crew had had on her, eroding her shell, bringing her to a point at which she found a certain enjoyment in being around other people as more than a passive observer.

O'Conner would have been delighted, but the thought brought no comfort or amusement.

"Go on, you won't be able to help this time." There, that was blunt—suspect, but blunt. "Don't waste the leave." With that, Shepard turned, picking her way towards the docking bay, trusting in the integrity of various team members to keep the ones prone to worrying from following her.

Right now it didn't sound like they had much time—there were only so many reasons Girard would contact her, all of which required her presence in docking bay five, _right now_. "Go on, El-Tee, I'm listening," Shepard resumed. Without the weight of putting on the right appearances for her team, the situation seemed to close in, now she had more mental resources available to deal with it.

_Girard gave an audible sigh of relief. "She's gone and holed herself up in here—she…she's very confused. Threatened to shoot us, shoot herself…she saw _that_ threat got results, so it's what she's sticking to. I don't know what she thinks she's doing. Our efforts have kept her from blowing herself away, but we're not making any real progress_."

This sounded logical to Shepard, a way to keep the strangers at bay, out of reach for as long as possible. Batarians were not known to possess any trait equating with 'humane'. If the girl had been with them since the raid, she would probably assume that 'being rescued' was actually going from bad to worse, from one slave-holder to another. That assumption on the girl's part left C-Sec in a bad position, and the girl herself in a scared position with no way out. One thing compounded the others.

Shepard stepped into the appropriate elevator and pressed the up arrow. "_It's a long shot, but I __hoped…I'm hoping she might listen to you. You went through the same thing…the raid. I was hoping you could talk her out of her tree._" The lieutenant sounded almost desperate to find an out for the girl.

Shepard didn't blame him. Memory of four others, rescued when she was, swam before her mind's eye. None of them saw the age of nineteen. Years of practice and willpower let her shove many details, names, faces, small events from that time period under her mental rug. But they were only hidden, covered up, not truly gone. "I'm halfway there, now."

"_Thank you, Commander. Anything you can do would be great. I don't want…she's been through enough_."

Undoubtedly.

The walk to Docking Bay Five brought with it many dark, gloomy things she would rather have left obscured in memory. But like photographs taken from an old trunk, the dust blown free from their faded contents, they remained discernible. The Prothean Cipher—always in the back of her mind and still distracting even with several days between receiving it on Feros and now—seemed to react to the influx of thought and worry, growing softer, like the sound of the sea, but still menacing in its strangeness.

She stepped into the appropriate elevator, and as it lifted, she began feeling as though she was somehow going back in time, or separating herself from the reality she knew. A very small part of her shivered, as though the tube of the elevator shaft led to her grave, not to an old docking bay. The thought was ridiculous, and she knew it...yet that irrational corner of her mind protested that it was _not_.

The doors opened promptly, allowing Shepard to find the man she presumed to be Lt. Girard walking towards her. "That was quick," he declared, rubbing his chin, which was gray with stubble and lined with care. Shepard wondered about the duration of this standoff. Girard looked exhausted, but nowhere near giving up.

"It's important. Where is she?" Shepard tried and failed to quell the tingle of nerves akin to the ones she usually felt when bullets started flying. This was a case where bullets would not help; she could deal with those situations, but bullets (even if she did not have to use them) were comforting.

"You see those storage containers?" Girard pointed back to a stack of heavy plastic crates.  
Shepard nodded. As she did so, a pale shape peered out from around them, checking to see if the coast was clear. Upon perceiving the status quo had not changed, the head vanished out of sight.

"She's still behind there," Girard dropped his voice. Not having noticed the discreet motion by the crate in his preoccupation. "I have a sniper positioned, but I don't think we need him. She's more a danger to herself than anyone else."

It was standard procedure to put a shooter somewhere with a good bead on the gunman, regardless of who was in the most danger, the gunman or the authorities. "Does she know he's there?" Shepard devoutly hoped they wouldn't need him. Enough Mindoir survivors were dead by this time—they did not need one more name—even if the name was only Jane Doe—with a line drawn through it.

"No, I'm pretty sure she doesn't," Girard answered, trying not to wring his hands with nerves. This standoff had gone on long enough…he couldn't believe the Commander's sense of good timing, but to say he was glad she was here was an understatement.

Unfortunately, the commander was also armed to the teeth. She looked like she could start and finish a war all by herself, and he was reluctant to prompt her to disarm. But word had spread fast in C-Sec that Shepard supposedly had a negotiator's gift…

Girard supposed now was the time for him to find out. He hoped it was true...but all those guns...was there any way to diplomatically suggest she leave them by the door? Not that _he_ minded them: she was a Spectre and had also been attacked on the Citadel once. No, he was more worried about the girl behind the crated reacting badly.

"We have a sedative for her," he held up the tiny plastic box, inside which two pills rattled, "but we can't get close enough to give it to her. Even if we could, we'd end up having to force-feed them to her, and I would rather not do that. Every time we try to talk to her, she just gets more wound up."

"She's scared." Scared was the understatement of the century. Vague flashes of the time between watching the first batarian's head explode in a spongy, bloody mass after being peppered with shotgun pellets meant to take down varren, to finding her hand locked safely in Maguire's flickered like old film, indistinct, blurry, and fractured.

Girard nodded, despite the fact Shepard had not actually asked a question. "Terrified."

Shepard took the plastic box then knelt, pulling the knife out of her boot and setting it on the floor. With a deep breath and a conscientious attempt to clear her mind, she worked the various toggles and fastenings that released the harnesses for her pistol and shotgun, and the extra ammo block she carried, not because she needed it, but because she needed to feel prepared. And the grenades—a belt of three.

It was, she smiled grimly and without amusement, best not to carry those either. Truth be told, the grenades were more of a standing joke than a practicality; they also gave her a sense of balancing out the load she carried on her back, resting right where her shield batteries would be on her armor.

She might insist on heavy armaments on the Citadel, but with her old armor currently with Spectre Requisitions and her new armor in transit...such was the life of a soldier.

Girard watched her set the grenades beside the shotgun. He'd heard someone attacked Shepard in the wards, but really, weren't _grenades_ a bit of overkill? Maybe it was simply a marine thing.

"Keep your guys back here—I don't want them close enough to get her anymore worked up. Do we have a name for her?" Shepard's calm voice pulled Girard's attention away from the gear she had just divested herself of, and back to the truly important matter on hand.

He clipped his thoughts short. She was a Spectre—if she wanted to carry around an entire ammunitions depot in a backpack, she had that right.

"No, no, we don't." He wished they did, but the girl was not exactly in a communicative mood.

"Make sure these don't go anywhere—the req-officer will have my ass if they do." Truthfully, the turian property manager for the Spectres probably _would_ get upset if things walked off. She could melt the barrel of every gun in her arsenal, and bring back armor plates reduced to dust and he would label it 'all in a day's work'. Lose something and she doubted he would be so patient.

"Commander," Girard aborted a gesture to touch Shepard's arm, but she stopped walking to give him her attention nonetheless. "Don't push her too hard. If she seems liable to…to pull the trigger, just back off…or walk away. I'm willing to wait her out. I just thought…"

"I get it," Shepard nodded reassuringly.

She approached the crates from an angle, hands held out away from her sides, breathing slowly, deeply, separating her thoughts, retaining half at the forepart of her brain, forcing the others to the back, where the Cipher again lost volume, crowded out by her own mental quagmires. "Hey, you back there?" She called gently, uncertainty vibrating in the pit of her stomach. Why was it that dealing with desperate biotics was easier than this?

Easy: they'd had guns and she'd had guns, and she'd proved she could use hers. It was simple, then: let negotiations begin.

It was not simple now, shooting the other party was not a viable option, not even one to be considered.

"S-stop! Stop!" The voice screeched, cracking with fear, no, _panic, _and possibly exhaustion.

Shepard had just rounded the crates, still a good distance back, though now able to see the other woman. The woman was younger than she expected, and vaguely Shepard wondered if she had not expected to see something like a shade of herself in the liberated prisoner before her.

The woman could not have been more than twenty or so. She was thin, wasted-looking, her hair buzzed down so her scalp showed through. Her clothes, although neat—obviously issued by the team that brought her here—hung off her thin frame, several sizes too big. Her eyes, however, were huge in her face, brimming with frantic thoughts, fear, confusion, rimmed with dark circles and desperation. For a moment she focused on Shepard, taking in the Alliance uniform, the fact she was unarmed, the expression of caution and concern.

None of it reassured the woman in any sense. "What do you…what are you?" she demanded shrilly, pointing the pistol at Shepard, holding it in both hands. She was not used to holding one, and even if she did shoot, there was a distinct possibility the first shot would go wide. The woman's hands shook, then her entire posture tensed, muscles locking up to steady the shake of the gun. Now, at this range, it would be hard for her to miss.

Shepard's small comfort was that the gun was C-Sec junk; it was not junk enough to misfire, nor did she expect the safety to be engaged, but C-Sec junk was C-Sec junk.

Still, Shepard did not want to test her ability to dodge bullets, not without armor and full shields. Not today, anyway. Her survival instincts railed at letting the gun point at her chest without any sort of precaution to keep the slugs from slamming into her.

"I'm Jalissa. Jalissa Shepard," Shepard answered slowly, calmly, as if she didn't have a pistol pointing steadily in her direction. Her nerves jittered slightly, held in check only by remembered screaming, the inability to distinguish friend from foe, which led to chomping into the hand of an Alliance soldier, struggling to maintain a grip on her shotgun.

Her _father's_ shotgun.

_What's your name, baby doll?" _

_She forced herself to look at the human. Human. Her jaw worked, her lips pursed and unpursed, but the words, the remembrance of how to form words did not come. She bit her lip, hard, shaking her head. _

_Whether the woman understood the problem or not, she gave no inclination. "That's all right, honey. I'm Lieutenant Robbins, we're here to get you somewhere safe. Nod if you understand me, okay?"_

"Lt. Girard back there asked me to talk to you. What's your name?" Shepard asked gently, finally making eye contact.

For a moment, the other woman tried to hold Shepard's gaze, but her mouth worked around incoherent if silent words, and she seemed to shy away while trying to stand her ground. In the end, she looked away, and began trembling again. The level stillness of the gun wavered. Again the distinct possibility arose that the first shot would miss.

Shepard still did not feel like testing it; she understood patience, and was patient by practice if not necessarily by inclination.

"Animals don't get names," the woman muttered fiercely, half to herself, half as if to someone standing beside her. A feral, hunted look crossed her wasted face, her hands steadying again, nostrils flared as she breathed. "The masters put symbols on her. Hot metal all over her back!" This last was nearly spat out. It looked as though she might do something incredibly foolish.

Then a remarkable, startling change came over her. Her face suddenly cleared, gazing at Shepard with a childlike fear that made the Commander uneasy. The weapon lowered several inches, ready to be brought up to firing height again, but clearly the intention to shoot had subsided. The heavy breathing took on a piteous catch, as though she could feel the pain even now. "She screams when they do it." Even the voice had changed, barely a squeak, as if afraid of being heard. She was, for the moment, no more than a cornered creature, too afraid to lash out, contrary to her initial appearances. She began to rock back and forth anxiously, looking around as if to make sure Shepard wasn't letting anyone sneak up on her.

It was as good a place to start as any. "It's okay. They're all back by the elevator. You can look if you want to, I'll wait right here." To demonstrate her point, Shepard relaxed into her 'at ease' stance.

The woman peered around Shepard, though still keeping one shoulder against the crates, and one eye on Shepard.

Sure enough, Girard and his men were all huddled back by the lift doors.

"You're not an animal," Shepard said, feeling a surge of an old hatred she'd managed to mostly kill rear up, sending out creepers and feelers…like a Thorian in her soul. "Surely you remember your parents?" Jeb and Leah Shepard. "What did they call you, can you remember?"

"She remembers lots of things." The aggressive voice was back, the body posture changed.. It was still that of a cornered animal, but one driven to fierceness. Her knuckles blanched on the grip of the gun. "Talitha—they called her that." 'They' obviously meant her family, given the lack of vehemence, fear or hatred infusing the word. "Sh-she doesn't remember the rest. _Leave her alone_!" The gun leveled again as she shrieked the last word, Talitha's whole form heaving with every breath. If she could have backed up further, she would have, despite the fact Shepard had not moved.

_Kian. Jalissa. Rhannia. Quinlan. Isabella. Jonas…little Jonas_.

"Talitha? How did you get here? Did you escape?" Shepard purposely left the question free to interpretation. Talitha's interpretation of the question and her answer would give Shepard a great deal of information, that was certain.

Like establishing who Talitha thought the real enemy was.

"Escape? She can't escape," Talitha spat angrily, her eyes flashing. No doubt about it, she would shoot if Shepard pressed her; Shepard did not move, nor did she retract her question. It was just like playing chicken. "They have _chains. Wires. Needles_. You go too far and they take your brains away," she tapped the barrel of her pistol to her head, as if to illustrate a point. Her eyes slid off to one side, as though checking to see if someone unseen was listening in on the conversation.

"Tell me what happened." Shepard pressed gently.

Talitha glowered for a few moments, lips puckering as though caught between two conflicting emotions, her eyes darting around, looking for deceptions, sneaking, or treachery. When it became apparent that Shepard was not playing the part of a decoy, the girl drew back. This time she walked back into the wall, flinching as she came in contact with the solid plane. With a visible swallow, she seemed to snuggle up with her back to the wall, mistrust still stamped on her hollow features. "Animals come. Animals like her. Animals with guns…"

Talitha's demeanor changed again, back to the frightened child, her posture relaxing into a cringe. She sidled into the corner formed by the crates and the docking bay wall, effectively cornering herself, but leaving only two directions from which an attack could successfully come. "They make the masters explode," Talitha visibly trembled, though from fear, pain, memory, adrenaline or all of them Shepard wasn't sure.

_Strange gabble…not even anything understandable. But that leer is…it's an almost human face…the words change. 'Put the gun down, princess. Put it down.' _

_But that would be stupid. She knows it would be stupid. _

"She tries to fix the masters," Talitha continued, panic in her voice as she struggled to justify herself, the gun forgotten in her hand. Her overlarge eyes fixed on Shepard's face, and this time she did not look away. In fact, she seemed to have decided Shepard's presence was a kind of lifeline. "To fix them, so they won't be mad at her! They're always mad…" she shivered again from head to foot, "she puts all the reds and purples back in but…but they don't move..." her voice broke, fresh convulsions shaking her like a rag doll.

_His head exploded in a red mass, spongy bits of brains landing sickly behind him, as the body crumpled to the ground, its guiding force rendered nonexistent by the shotgun's blast. The noise could make eardrums bleed…_

_It's not alive. _

_It's not really a life gone. _

_Don't think about it. _

_**Run**__._

"Then the other animals take her…" Talitha trailed off, sniffling as her sinuses filled.

_That's right. they take you away—away from the fight and you're so scared…you can't think…_

Shepard decided to press her luck, just a little bit. The simple fact that Talitha was talking, was answering questions encouraged her. "I was on Mindoir too, Talitha," Shepard offered, a little tremulously, picking her words carefully without knowing which ones would work. It was easier dealing with people whose motives she could understand. "My family died in the raid—the batarians killed them." All of them.

She couldn't be thankful all those years ago that they were dead and not taken.

_Don't look down don't look down don't look—you don't want to see him like that…he's not Dad __anymore…or you'll always remember him _like that_. Not like he _is_. Don't look…just __**run**_**.**

Now, after all that time, she could say that, maybe, they were among the lucky ones.

She was not sure she could have stood the knowledge they might be out there, subjected to who knew what kind of cruelty and abuse, separated from one another, knowing she was still out there…

…begging and praying she would come rescue them. Fearing she was captured as they had been, or killed. Cursing her for not finding them, for not saving them. Hating her for leaving them.

It was a real fear early on, nightmarish scenarios of their being worked to death, so when she found them, she only found their corpses, too late to help, too late to say goodbye. Too late to do anything but continue a single-minded quest for vengeance, a vendetta that was never over, a hatred that could not by then be assuaged, an obsession not even threat of being kicked off the _El Alamein_ could break.

A nightmare that very nearly came to pass, in more ways than one.

She did not want to think about the conceivably fruitless searching during those intervening years, the hope that each slave freed might have a familiar face, or recognize hers, and the repeated disappointment when she found only strangers…

"Lying…you're lying!" The angry-survivor reemerged, eyes snapping, mouth working to find sharp-edged words she could throw like knives, hoping to fend of this non-aggressive aggressor, this nonthreatening threat. She could not explain Shepard without resorting to paradoxes. "They _hit_ you for lying. Get the buzz. Or the _burning_…" she shuddered. "Can't be there. Why are you alive?" Talitha screamed, her face contorting as if she meant ot burst into tears.

Just as suddenly, she subsided back to the frightened-child, like a pendulum swinging back and forth. "Why aren't you—why aren't you like her?" The question smacked of a child holding up hands to mother after a fall, requesting comfort and reassurance. "Broken? Only fit to dig and carry?"

A question.

And an accusation. _Why didn't you save me?_

Shepard hadn't saved her family. She hadn't saved anyone. Just herself. No one ever criticized her for running away…and it took a lot of effort on those dark nights immediately afterward, when her childhood burned down around her not to accuse herself of cowardice. It took all her willpower not to condemn herself for not going back for the others.

It hurt her, and she masked it by getting angry when people tried to absolve her, tried to convince her she had done the right thing. But they weren't there: there was no 'right thing' that night. None, just a string of lose-lose situations.

"_Then tell me I'm crazy! Go on, do it!" She upset the table. Perhaps not a show of superhuman strength, but she certainly felt it. The clutter on the table clattered to the ground as she rounded, crouched as though poised to strike. "_**SAY IT!**"

"_Jalissa, we only want you to talk to us."_

"_I am talking! I'm freaking shouting and you're not listening__! I'm done talking! Sign the damn papers and let me get the hell out of here! You can't…you can't make me stay!" _

Enlistment. She'd enlisted as soon as possible. Months drifting in Alliance custody, and everything she didn't say, everything she didn't let out contributed to a constant headache…like the one she had now. Now…

_Come on, focus Shepard. _

But it wasn't that simple.

"I _was_ broken," Shepard answered firmly, but quietly, half-trapped in her own flood of memories , ones she'd thought scarred over, sealed away, unable to hurt her anymore.

_You could be me. I could be you. _

It was a sobering thought. "I lost my whole family, Talitha." Her nose and eyes stung sharply.

As though taking advantage of the weakening of her inner strength as old memories battered it, the pound of the Cipher tried to rise. Yet all the mental chaos of her current predicament banished it back into dark recesses, banished it with a single keening note of grief and loss, someone else's, or maybe it really was her own voice screaming for a family she'd never see again. For a brief moment it sounded to her as though her own pain and older, half-remembered fears elicited similar feelings from the Cipher.

After all, it was the memory of people. Even Protheans had to know what pain, and fear and loss were, why should her own strong emotions not cause some resonance with those memories inaccessible and not really hers? Was that what the rising noise of the cipher was? Empathy?

"Parents. Brothers. Sisters. All of them gone." The words fell like stones, blank as she considered this unpleasant insight into the 'maybes' of the Cipher. There was no way to confirm or debunk her theories, there was no one else to compare notes with.

_Task at hand_, she reminded herself fiercely, wondering if perhaps she had not relished the idea of a break in her current situation.

Talitha looked like she was calming, or at least listening, her eyes riveted on Shepard's face.

"I had to keep going. I just…I had to stand up, make myself get back up."

But the answer did not sound as steady as she would have liked, as though those few moments of introspection eroded the refuge above emotional upheaval to the point where logic began to sink, and all she could do was try to tread water. She lived and breathed for the Alliance, but in furthering the Alliance her actions must never, never cause the dead shame. The end goal must be honorable; the methodology must not be the quick and easy way.

Leaving flowers at the homestead had not helped, but this mindset had. She had not had to think about any of this for…a long time.

_What were you thinking Shepard?_

_They were animals, sir. You sent us in to neutralize the threat, we did it._

_Tell me this has nothing to do with your dislike of batarians. With what happened on Mindoir._

_It doesn't. They were the enemy. I acted accordingly._

But it was a lie. She hated them. All of them—bring them on, the more the better. Soon they all looked the same, a face for the faceless enemy. And her job was to…

"You lose your mommy and daddy?" Came the tremulous question. The question shattered the solidifying mass of remembered hatred and loathing. Shepard nodded, unable to bring the 'yes' to her lips. "You don't dig. You don't carry. You stand up…" Shepard forced her memories back, unsure why they should hit so hard, so vividly _now_, bringing with them all the surges of anger, guilt, and grief she thought long since buried. "She wishes she could stand up…" Talithat's words were nearly a whisper, and yet also an admission that she did not have the strength to do such a thing. Could never have...but she wished she did.

It was progress. The gun had slowly, during Talitha's discourses, lowered to her side, and finally began to stay there, as though all thought of using it on herself or anyone else was gone. "Talitha? I'm going to take a step towards you, all right? Just one little step…" Shepard slid her foot forward and watched Talitha tense.

The C-Sec personnel in the back seemed to take a collective breath and hold it—but that might have just been in her mind. It had to be—there was no way she could hear a collective in take of breath this far from them.

"_No!" _Talitha shouted as soon as Shepard's other foot moved. Shepard froze, like a startled cat as Talitha glanced around, as though contemplating a sprint to somewhere further from Shepard. "She's no good! Don't want to be handled again." Only this time, the tone held less anger, and more fear.

Shepard raised her hands, showing they were still empty, except for the little box of sedatives. But it was one step further, and she had taken as much ground as she dared without looking ridiculous. Shepard estimated she could be in arm's reach in two more steps, if she was careful.

_Don't rush. Do it right, not fast. You're in the business of saving lives these days…remember? Here's your big chance…the time it matters most. _

"Talitha, I want to help you." Talitha flinched, but Shepard continued, her voice level, but reassuring. "I need you to tell me: what was the last thing you remember? From Mindoir, I mean." This had to seem like a rescue. Otherwise it would end badly. Shepard's heart thudded in her throat.

Fighting geth was never like this. She would prefer the geth. At least she had spatter points to offset the times where physical strength waned and fatigue set in. Physical fatigue she could handle, it was part of a marine's daily life. The mental, emotional fatigue, though…that was hard.

Talitha cast about. "Fires." She answered slowly at first, wrong-footed by the question. "Smoke…and dark…and burning meat." Sweat stood out on her brow, catching the docking bay lights.

Shepard remembered that too, nodding encouragingly. Also, the noise…the sounds of screams the likes of which no one should have to hear. It was one more reason to hate batarians, to want to go and put her foot in their collective asses, to put them out of _her_ misery—the weapons they carried. But even they couldn't stand up to a shotgun meant to kill varren, some of the toughest varmints ever bred…

"Animals screaming as the masters cage them…" Talitha swallowed, her eyes red-rimmed, mouth twitching as if biting back tears. She probably was. "As they put metal to their backs. She pretends to be dead. If she's dead she can't work. She hopes they'll leave…but they know…they know…" Talitha looked away from Shepard, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. "She didn't fight," An undercurrent of shame—horrifying to Shepard—crept into Talitha's voice, her movements jerky and twitching, screaming 'don't look at me'. "She-she was already broken when they put the wires in," this time she tapped her head with the heel her hand, the pistol hanging half forgotten from one limp arm. The painful admission seemed to sap her remaining strength—though likely it would come surging back at some point.

"Talitha, what were you? Six? Seven?" Shepard asked gently, her voice lower pitched than usual. No one could blame the girl for not fighting, no one. Shepard was no stranger to survivor's guilt, but it was hard to see in someone like Talitha.

_Sixteen. Able to fight back. She didn't try, she damn well _did _it. _

"No one, not one single person blames you for staying quiet. For hoping they'd go away. The only person blaming you is you," the gentle firmness was backed by a firsthand certainty. "It's okay…"

Funny…that's what they said to her, all those years ago. But she wasn't six years old. She could have fought back and while she did not know what she could have accomplished…she could have fought back.

Or so she thought at the time. She knew better now.

_The homestead burned. The city burned…nowhere was safe…and no one knew where the others were…it was only them. He only ran because he had her with him. If he hadn't…maybe…maybe they could have made it to the homestead. Saved the others…_

"She wants to believe that," Talitha said after a moment, eyeing Shepard closely, searching for deception and finding none. "She wants to believe nothing would change. She doesn't want to be there anymore. In the pens..." she was getting worked up again, but something had changed, and when Shepard lifted her eyes from the floor, where they'd fallen in a lapse of weariness, she found Talitha's tear-filling eyes waiting for her. "In the cages. Lying quiet while they do things to her."

Shepard's insides wrenched at the plethora of unpleasant possibilities this phrase introduced into her mind. She'd seen enough, heard enough intergalactic nastiness to fill a book, which left plenty of material for imagination to fill in gaps. "Talitha…" _She wants to be rescued. She _wants _someone to save her…_

…_and only I can do it…_

"_Is it really so important for you to kill batarians?" Robbins demanded darkly._

_Fewer batarians meant the likelihood of a second Mindoir went _down_, didn't anyone understand?_

_Shepard jerked her chin once, then closed her eyes, groaning softly as her brain seemed to slam against the inside of her skull, then fall back into place painfully. _

_Robbins ignored the sounds of pain. "You damn jarhead." Turning on her heel, Robbins stalked out. _

_Shepard stared after her. The name was applied to every marine to the point it lost all meaning, it was just another way to say 'hey you in the uniform'. But the way Robbins had said it…it felt like a slap. _

"She doesn't want…_don't touch her_!" the angry-survivor shouted, but there was a trace of panic there, now. The more the anger faded, the stronger the frightened child faction seemed to get. The part of Talitha that had—as human nature dictated—held on to one small particle of hope that someday she'd be rescued.

But she hadn't understood the first time, when they put her on the shuttle and took her here. Taking her away from the batarians hadn't rescued her—it had only made the problem worse, because to her it was not a rescue. It was a second kidnapping. However well-intentioned her rescuers were, her mind was still there…with _them_. With what she knew, had known for most of her life. They had wrenched her away mercilessly from what was, to Talitha's mind, familiar—even if it was a highly unpleasant familiar.

_But I can bring her back. I can save her. I spent all those years looking for her. The one survivor I could save. I wanted to save a life…but I never seemed to. They'd live…but deaths weigh on __you. Hatred weighs on you…_ Shepard shook her head, wishing the pounding behind her eyes would stop, would let her think more clearly, more rationally.

"…I was with my dad. We were just coming back from town." You didn't leave the homestead without a gun—varren and other predators ran loose, untamed by mankind's spread across the fertile plains. You always kept something on hand—not everyone was trustworthy. Bandits weren't a big problem, but every now and again…

"There's…she sees them. They're yelling. Run. _Hide_! They hit the masters…but the masters have lights and hoses…" Talitha, still swinging between two extremes, jumped in when Shepard's words ended, as though they were playing pass the stick with a gruesome horror story. "Daddy's…he's _melting_!"

Yes, it looked like they melted: like a marshmallow left too long in a reheater. Batarian weapons were some of the most frowned-upon weapons in the galaxy. Inhumane. Unethical—if a weapon could be called that. After all, a weapon's job was to kill its owner's enemy.

…but not like that…

"Sh-she doesn't want to see that!" the angry-survivor snapped, raising one arm as if unsure whether to hold it to throw a punch or to use it to ward off a blow. "Don't…don't make her look!" Talitha's tone changed to a frightened whisper, more to herself than to Shepard. "Don't look…" and back... "Stupid…stupid!" She struck her forehead with the heel of her hand, as though trying to drive the unwanted images out of her mind.

"Talitha? I know it hurts," Shepard's voice was huskier than she would have liked. She was not even sure what she meant to say to finish that sentence, so she let it stand for the moment.

If she had the capacity for extraneous thoughts, she would have wondered if this was what Alenko went through with those migraines: this horrible throbbing pain that made vision blurry and reverberated like shockwaves through solid matter…

But she was almost there. Talitha was raving, but she wasn't lost.

_I can still save her_. _Let me save you. _

It wouldn't erase all the things in those early years…but it would help. It would help to know that she really did belong to the business of saving lives now… "What happened? _Think_." Shepard pressed.

_Too many lives. Too many deaths. Too many lost. Too many saved. Not a hero. I'm not. I don't want it. Such a small chance…what if it hadn't happened? What if Robbins hadn't told me…hadn't made me think. Made me face it? _

Robbins on Mindoir…she'd believed in Shepard. Saved her. Later served as Shepard's own CO…had chewed Shepard out, not just as a commanding officer but as someone who cared, who knew where she'd come from, that dead-on-the-inside girl who lied about her age so she could _do something_.

Robbins was the reason she, Shepard, was in the business of saving lives.

Shepard almost didn't register it when it happened. She felt the sting in her eyes stop for a moment, just before something warm slipped down her cheek. She reached up dazedly, and touched her face with wary fingers. At the touch, salt water glistened on her fingertips. No, no…now was not the time to cry about how bitterly unfair things were…she was over that. _Over it_.

"When she thinks…" Talitha offered diffidently, watching Shepard's dazed motion, "water comes out of her eyes too." She sounded surprised, shocked at finding this thing in common with the one who wouldn't lie down and cower, who didn't dig and carry.

The one who _knew__. _

Shepard looked up, the thought of tears driven from her mind.

"The masters beat her when she wastes water," Talitha gave a bitter, wry little laugh accompanied by a shudder, as though reflexively shying away from something. "So she doesn't think anymore." Her eyes narrowed, but not angrily. Determined—afraid but determined. Determined to show this small measure of defiance, while the masters couldn't see.

"She sees them. Mommy and Daddy…" Talitha's eyes brimmed with tears as well, her mouth thinning and pursing between words, between sentences. "Burning in white light…_melting_. Going to p-pieces…" Talitha choked.

In that moment she seemed more innocuous than she had through the whole nerve-wracking process. It was defiance, pure defiance that she gave voice to the words, put light on the event, spoke out. It visibly cost her a great deal, but she pushed on doggedly, as though doing so would let her catch up to Shepard. And if she caught up..things might be okay...or at least better.

"They can't even say anything to her…they're _dead_…" Talitha's voice broke. "They try to save her, and the masters burn them." The tears fell from where they'd pooled for so much of the conversation. Talitha reached up, much as Shepard had done, and touched the drops slipping down her sharp cheekbones. "Can she stop remembering now? Please?" Her voice broke, accompanied by a sag in her posture, her strength to hurdle the story like so many stones expended.

Shepard looked at Talitha, biting the inside of her lip. It would take a harder heart than hers to be unmoved by the plea. She _saw_ the woman standing in front of her, but her mind perceived a six-year-old girl, face sooty, tear tracks on her cheeks, desperate for rescue.

And this time it was rescue, not a second kidnapping.

Shepard swallowed, taking a final step closer, watching as Talitha tried to back up, shaking, pistol forgotten. "Please don't touch her," the frightened quaver pleaded, eyes eloquently expressive. "She's dirty. You'll catch it."

"I'm no cleaner," Shepard said softly. She held up the little box of pills and set them on the container, between Talitha and herself. "These will make you sleep." Talitha looked over at the little white box as Shepard reached slowly forward with her other hand, prying the gun loose from Talitha's fingers, sticking it into the waistband of her fatigues after putting the safety on. Not the most secure place, but it would work. "If you fall asleep, they'll take you to a place where you can get better."

Talitha's hand fumbled for and closed numbly around the little box. Then, suddenly, she latched onto Shepard, as if Shepard could stop her from drowning.

Shepard squashed her immediate shock. _She's six again. It's okay. _Shepard reached up, drawing upon dimmer memories of mothers and the things mothers did for distressed kids—even if said child wasn't her own. Wrapping her arms firmly around the other woman, Shepard let Talitha bury her head in her shoulder. "It's okay, honey," Shepard breathed, remembering being in a similar position once before. "It's all right, babydoll."

It was what Robbins told her; no one could ask for anything better than that.

She heard the soft click of the pillbox, then Talitha moved to swallow them dry, the plastic case falling from her hands as she continued to anchor herself against Shepard, fingers and fingernails digging into Shepard's back as Talitha's hands clenched around fistfuls of Shepard's shirt. Talitha sniffled, continuing to shake as Shepard waited for the sedatives to take effect. "Will she have bad dreams?" Talitha asked, her words slurring slightly from the drugs.

Shepard reached up, imitating her own mother as she ran a hand over Talitha's buzzed hair. "No, I don't think so," she answered quietly. "You'll dream of a warm place. A safe place…and when you wake up…you'll be there."

"She'd like that," Talitha continued to slur, hanging heavily as she slowly lost the ability to control the muscles needed to keep her standing. "It hurts when she…when _I_ remember me…"

It did hurt. More than Shepard expected as she knelt, helping Talitha sag onto the floor, instead of trying to support the frail woman's weight.

"But she wants to remember…" Talitha mumbled, her head lolling. The fingers clenched around the back of Shepard's shirt eased.

"Talitha?" Shepard asked calmly, her head pounding with pain, her body showing all the classic signs of an adrenaline rush, as if she had just come out of a fight.

Talitha didn't answer, merely hung bonelessly against Shepard, half seated on the floor.

Shepard gave Talitha a few more minutes, and took a few moments to collect herself. She was not sure if it was memory or relief that made her want to sit and cry like a child, but years of putting the mission first allowed her to stave off the emotional overflow, even if her face was a little on the red side, and her eyes overly bright. "Lt. Girard?" she called, once she was sure her own voice would be level.

"Commander?"

"It's over. You can bring your guys in now." Her words sounded calm, composed, natural. No one would suspect her vocal cords were pulled tight, that the silent scream so long packed away with all the other baggage had reasserted itself.

A moment later a stretcher accompanied the C-Sec detail, to bear the sleeping Talitha away.

Lt. Girard offered a hand to help Shepard to her feet—the Commander having been unable to stand until Talitha was disengaged. "Thank you, Commander, it means a lot," he said gratefully.

Shepard watched Talitha being carried away, curled on one side, shaking slightly beneath a blanket in drug-induced sleep. "I didn't want to hurt her it's just…" the lieutenant took his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. "…she was only six when they took her. Why the hell are we out here, anyway, if we can't even keep one little girl safe?" came the bitter question.

Shepard sighed, having asked similar questions before. There was no way she was joining the others now. There was no way she was going to anything about Benezia right now, either. Not after all this…she herself felt like she'd just gotten her head handed back to her. She wanted to be alone. She didn't want to hold Girard's hand and pep-talk him into feeling better. She didn't want anyone to thank her—she just wanted them to let her go. Let her disappear…

_This is the place to do it. It's too big. Easy to lose one person. _

"Bad things happen to good people." Shepard answered in a dead-calm that Girard, wrapped up in his own mental state, didn't notice. "That's why people like…like you and I are here," Shepard forced the reassuring words out, when all she wanted was to disappear into the Wards. To wander, lost, alone among a million other people. To disappear, slip through the chinks. "Don't wrong your hands, El-Tee. Help her," Shepard advised.

Girard nodded, and in a few minutes Shepard was in the lift, alone. The tears were trying to come back, but she managed to halt them. A crying woman attracted attention, a lot of it the wrong sort. She knew, deep down, this was not a good day for her to get into a fight—someone would get seriously hurt. Or dead. She reached up and turned off her commlink, leaning against the wall of the much-hated, slow-moving elevator, as it bore her towards a place in which to get lost.

As the capsule bore her downwards, she resisted the urge to cry, the shakes and the headache came from hurt, old pain…

…and relief. A relief that hurt, in and of itself.


End file.
